


Through a Glass, Darkly

by drivingsideways



Category: Serenade of Peaceful Joy (TV), 孤城闭 | Held in the Lonely Castle (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, episode coda, i had to get if off my chest before the show infuriated me any more, spoilers upto episode 20, this is mostly gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:28:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23825317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drivingsideways/pseuds/drivingsideways
Summary: Wishing to see him,to be seen by him-if only hewere the mirrorI face each morning.-Izumi Shikibu
Relationships: Cao Danshu/Zhang Maoze, Empress Cao/Maoze
Comments: 10
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

Cao Danshu had been barely three years old when she first rode a horse.

Not by herself, obviously, but seated on one in front of her uncle, held secure in his strong arms.

She doesn’t remember much of it herself, but her vivid imagination aided by the countless retellings of the story- usually part of a long complaint about her inappropriate behaviour- had led to her forming a picture of it in her mind. She’d been dressed in a grey robe, and pants, _like any humble servant boy;_ her hair, already long, had escaped from its tight braids, _like an orphan from the street or a child raised in a forest,_ her tiny fingers barely able to close around the heavy, studded reins of uncle’s _war beast of a horse,_ as it flew over the fields of the family’s estate in Xiang.

_That_ part she doesn’t have to rely on her imagination, she remembers it well enough: _flying_.

By the time she’s twelve, she’s an accomplished horsewoman with her _own_ warhorse: another gift from her proud uncle, and the envy of her brothers.

She calls him _Shandian._

At fourteen, she sneaks into the Academy under her brother’s guise.

When her deception is discovered- soon enough- her father is more delighted than censorious, her mother making up for it in missive after missive full of fierce words and hidden concern.

At first, _Er-ge_ had been her shield, both at the academy from the bullying of other boys and at home, from their mother, but soon she hadn’t needed his protection either.

What couldn’t be settled with words, she learnt to settle with the sword, though after the first time doing the latter, she found that she didn’t _need_ to do it again.

_Er-ge_ had been amused, and _Da-ge_ a little chiding, but even _he_ couldn’t hide his pride in her.

_Those_ were the happiest years, she would think, later.

The simplest, because she was doing what she loved, and she was among people who treated her, though at first reluctantly, as an equal.

(The other thing she thinks about later: were they just pretending? Were they content to go along with it, _indulge_ her, because they knew, at the end of it, she would be forced back to home and hearth, have to rely on the kindness of a husband to be- _herself._ )

At eighteen and a half, and then for several years, she teaches herself the value of silence, of self-effacement.

She bites her cheek and swallows the words that come so readily, threatening always to spill, like the Moyao wine that her husband and lord loves so much.

The wine is sweet and fragrant, the words bitter, as they go down.

Her tears are hot on her pillow, and her bed is cold like winter.

When she’s four and twenty, Cao Danshu admits she’s a fool.

It’s a quiet admission; there’s nobody to hear it, not even Huan’er, whom she’s had to send away from the Palace, sacrifice on the altar of custom and propriety.

_“Enough!”_ She had yelled at Huan’er. _“Enough of your foolishness!”_

Her stomach had twisted as she’d said it, calling out her hypocrisy.

For hadn’t her mouth tasted bitter just then, as she watched Huan’er?

Huan’er’s face, gone soft and tender, speaking of being beheld by a beloved.

Hadn’t there been a monster in her heart, the one that hissed, _if you aren’t blessed enough, why should she be?_

She stares at herself in the polished bronze, sees a woman she doesn’t recognize anymore.

It’s bitter, that admission.

What folly, she thinks, to have imagined that _propriety_ and fulfilling one’s _duty_ would lead to _respect_ and _love_.

What folly, to hope that _love_ would then mitigate all her other inadequacies; her mother had been right after all, her worth rested in her womb, and in her ability to contort herself into a shape that was _pleasing._

Cao Danshu is unused to failure, but then, in this particular matter, she thinks, _better to lose a man, even if he be the sun in the heavens, than lose myself, entire._

At four and twenty, Cao Danshu unlearns silence.

She opens her mouth, wide, and screams.


	2. Chapter 2

Maoze’s life began with a scream.

It’s not the scream of the newly born, bloody and torn from the safest place in the world- though he must have screamed then too, he supposes, before he was quickly cleaned, wrapped, held in arms that welcomed, hushed in a voice of love.

But that boy- whoever he was- was not Maoze.

That boy was forgotten now, his name erased, and he was reborn entirely as a knife chops, cleanly, brutally.

There is no comfort in the arms that hold him down.

There is nobody to hush his tears.

Maoze screams till he cannot anymore.

The hand that wipes at his sweaty, fevered forehead later, isn’t gentle.

Later- much later- after the pain is done and all that’s left is a scar, Maoze is reborn, again.

This time, he keeps his name, called in a childish lisp by a boy his own age.

Their age is the only thing they have in common, otherwise, they are as far apart as the sun and the earth; for the other boy belongs in the heavens, and Maoze is not a boy anymore, and if Maoze is of the earth, he is not the majestic blue mountains they can see in the distance on a good day, or the ocean that he has only heard about, powerful and wild; no, Maoze is the dirt underneath the embroidered silk slippers of the Emperor’s feet.

The Emperor is kind.

Maoze is eleven when he learns the word _benevolence_ because the Emperor could have punished him and turned him out of the palace to die on the streets like a stray dog, for the mistake of serving him the wrong tea, but because the Emperor is _benevolent,_ all that happens is that the Emperor drinks his tea quietly, and teases him later, when no one can hear, about how he’s forgetful, like a goldfish.

Maoze lets the Emperor cry in secret, when he thinks no one can see him, and lets the Emperor pretend that _he_ hasn’t, either.

Maoze can never let the Emperor see him cry.

If the Emperor did, Maoze tells himself, if he was _allowed_ to see, then the Emperor would comfort him.

The Emperor is benevolent, the Emperor is kind, the Emperor treats him as a _friend_.

But the Emperor must not see him cry.

The Emperor is allowed to see him smile, but his smiles must be careful not to be inopportune, must never slide into laughter, which would be immoderate, and hence, inappropriate.

Maoze follows the rules, and Maoze does not laugh.

He doesn’t scream either.

“Take He’er to her mother” the Emperor orders. “See to it that if she needs any medical attention, she gets it”.

His cheeks are stained red, as red as the drops of blood on the sheets that Maoze strips from the bed later.

 _Perhaps love was always painful,_ Maoze thinks, and then close on its heels is the thought, _but one person will always be the one hurting, and the other, the one being hurt._

If she had asked him _before_ what she ought to do, he might have broken a rule, and said, _don’t, it will not be worth it._

But she hadn’t asked, and Maoze knows it is not his place to speak unless spoken to.

When he’s six and twenty, Cao Danshu springs into his life and carriage with barely any courtesy, as though she had a right to be there.

Barely a year later, he sees her again, the morning after the night that her husband absents himself, in a show of pique.

She’s still dressed in bridal red, as he bows before her.

 _Huanghou,_ he says, bowing low, for she belongs in the heavens, and he’s the dirt beneath her embroidered slippers, _His Majesty is unable to meet you as he’s busy with some petitions._

She inclines her head, graceful and poised even in her disappointment, and turns to leave, only to pause.

She turns back, and now there’s a smile on her face, and it- it- is-

Maoze’s heart stutters.

“I believe we’ve met before!” she says, her voice warm. “You did me a kindness and gave me a ride into the capital!”

He bows, lowering his head so that she won’t see his astonishment.

“Your Highness has a good memory for faces” he says, his tone sounding stiff and formal, even to his own ears.

But she isn’t fazed by that.

“Kind people are never to be forgotten” she says, her voice still warm, and maybe a little- amused? “Won’t you tell me your name to help me remember?”

“ _Huanghou_ is wise” he murmurs, “This humble servant Maoze ventures to say that the nation will surely be blessed under your guidance and example”.

She bites at her lip, as though she would say something more, but then has thought the better of it.

She inclines her head in acknowledgement, and then sweeps out.

Maoze knows the rules, Maoze knows he cannot speak, he cannot touch, he cannot _look_.

But he can’t help himself, his eyes are drawn to the heavens, to the crescent moon of her face, pale and beautiful beyond compare.

He’s careful about it, of course, so careful that not even Liaozi knows.

So careful that Liaozi, drowning in his own grief and regret, doesn’t question whether Maoze knows _anything_ about what he speaks so confidently.

When Maoze is thirty, a full two decades after he was brought into this gilded cage, to live the life of a half-man, he becomes careless.

He lets himself smile, and he lets himself look, and he lets himself speak, because who knew- who had told him- _nobody_ \- because they didn’t think it was _possible_ , and so nobody had prepared him for this, for the slow eroding of his defences, for the _impossible_ quickening of his heart when she was near, for the gnawing hunger that screams to be sated, by word, by look, by touch.

He had once thought of her as the moon, ethereal, faraway, cold.

He had been wrong.

He has known it for a while now.

Here in the dirt floor of a forest, with nobody but the moon as witness, Maoze kneels with her.

The moon is in the sky, he thinks, and you are here, close enough for me to touch.

Maoze reaches out and puts a hand on her armoured shoulder.


	3. Chapter 3

‘Maoze” she says, a small smile playing on her face, one that he has come to recognize, “I don’t believe your skills amount only to this!”

He lifts his eyes to hers, and lets her see the warmth in them, as he smiles back.

_I would always let you win,_ he thinks, _for I cannot bear for you to have even the most minor of losses._

But she’s in a teasing mood, for she only says, “It is of no matter. We shall see the next time”.

_Next time_.

He repeats the words to himself, that night, his lips moving in a silent prayer, _next time, let it be soon._

It _is_ soon, and then there’s the time after that, and the one after, until it becomes every day.

Until, games of weiqi become impromptu invitations for tea, and invitations for tea become discussions of poetry and the state of the world.

He loves her mind, he thinks one day, as she gesticulates with her hand to make a point, her entire face animated, alive- and alright, perhaps there has been more wine than strictly advisable, especially on such a pleasant summer day, with the moon bright in the sky- but her loves her mind, her loves her voice, he loves her fearless heart and he—

_Maoze,_ she’s saying, waving her hand in his face.

He blinks, and she goes off into peals of laughter, loud and immoderate.

It’s just as well that they are alone in this pavilion, the heavy scent of roses and jasmine in the air.

“You’re not even listening to a word I’m saying!” she says, gasping a little.

“Your words are engraved in my heart” he protests, and then flinches, in the sudden silence.

He jumps to his feet, ready to apologize, to grovel-

“Don’t” she says, and it’s soft, but firm. “Don’t apologize to me. Ever”.

And then, softer, a little shy, “Not for this”.

His breath catches, and he feels like there’s an iron band around his chest.

She rises to her feet, and steps toward him.

“Huanghou” he says, softly.

She stops.

“Is that what you see?” she asks. “Is that who you see before you?”

“I see a treasure” he replies, and there’s an odd buzzing in his ears as he throws away twenty-one years of learned silence, “I see a woman beyond compare”.

The bejewelled hairpin glints in the moonlight as she presses it into his trembling hand.


	4. Chapter 4

In the end, it is far easier than either of them had expected.

She tells the Emperor that she had made a vow for Huirou’s health and happiness, and now she must visit the temple in Chengdu to fulfill the obligations of that vow.

He doesn’t even look up at her as she makes the request.

Two weeks later, Maoze slips away in the night- for silence was not the only thing he had learnt in his two decades within the Forbidden City.

Later, they will announce that the Empress died of a sudden illness in Chengdu, her body having to be buried there due to the severe and disfiguring nature of her illness.

As for Maoze- well, he was only the dirt beneath their feet, nobody outside of the Palace even knew of his existence.

She had bet on it, when they had first planned it, had said, “Their pride will not allow them to reveal the truth, for the Emperor of the Great Song cannot be known to have been cuckolded by his wife and a mere eunuch. And for that very reason, they will not come after us, for a manhunt will only bring shame!”

They end up in Western Xia, of all places; it turned out, the barbarians lived freely, and did not care who they were or where they came from, as long as they had coin.

They find a house, a modest farmstead, and make more plans.

 _I have skills,_ she says, laughing at him, _and I’m not afraid of using my hands. What about you?_

She’s dressed in bridal red, but she’s foregone the veil, and he’s glad for it.

Every minute he can’t look at her beloved face is a waste of time.

“What do you think?” he asks her, smiling back, joy, immoderate and unfettered singing through his veins, “What do you see?”

“I see a treasure” she replies, softly, stepping into his arms, “I see a man beyond compare”.


End file.
